No Ending
by blender-mashup-mockup
Summary: Unlike in fairy tales, real life has no "endings". One story picks up where the other left off. This one picks up after Louis and Lyla’s own “happy ending” which goes on as expected , where their granddaughter is confronted with a similar predicament.
1. Voice

_A gist: set 30 years after the concert. The typical story follows through: Louis and Lyla meet August, get hooked, start a reasonably happy family, and the rest is history. I own nothing._

* * *

"So, what happened next, grandpa? How did it end?"

"Well, see sweetheart," her grandfather said, "The story has no ending. A new story takes its place. Which is followed by another story, and another story; that way, the story doesn't really end."

"Can you tell me the other story, please?"

"Now now, Rachel, it's past your bedtime. You wouldn't want your mum and da to find you still awake, now?"

"Come on, grandpa, grandma, please?'

"Listen to your grandfather, dear," Her grandmother added, "And Lou, how many times have we told her that story anyway?"

"Well over a dozen times, I think?" Grandfather added.

"He never ends it." Rachel added. "Do you know how it ends, grandma?"

Grandfather never told her why he never gave the story the same ending all other fairy tales. He never said that the stranger and the princess married, or if they ever got to meet the little boy that brought them together. She never tired of the story, mainly because it never seemed to give her the ending she wanted.

"Well, grandpa and I will tell you soon. But not tonight. You wouldn't want to be cranky all day tomorrow now would you?"

"Do you think it could be true?" She asked, her innocent blue eyes hungry for an answer.

The grandparents stared at each other.

"Maybe." Grandmother added as she tucked her in. "But now it's time for bed, little one. And it's time for grandpa to change baby Louis' diapers tonight. It's your turn; I did it last time."

"Do I have to?" Grandfather said jokingly. He never failed to give a smile on his granddaughter's face.

They kissed her good night and made their way to the door.

"Does daddy know this story, too?" She asked her grandparents before they closed the door. She figured that since they were her dad's parents, they probably told him the same story when he was a boy, too.

"He knows it just as well as we do." They said together, as the door closed.

She tried sleeping, but she just couldn't wait for it. Every story had an ending, she said. If it had no ending that meant the story wasn't finished at all.

* * *

Rachel had always loved the old days, when her family would be visiting his grandparent's home in the Upper East Side. It was always so warm and inviting. Grandma would be baking something at the kitchen while grandpa would be singing some of the songs he wrote when he was younger.

She could recall memories of happier times, where she and her brother Louis would sit and watch as their father and grandfather would play guitar together. They would later ask who played better, and Louis would say it was dad. She disagreed, and said they were about the same.

Daddy could play better, but grandpa had a better voice, she would often say. Dad agrees; while a lot of people told her that her father wrote great music, even he admits he couldn't sing as well.

It wasn't just her grandfather's singing that she liked. Her grandfather gave her the best advice, and while he wasn't exactly the smartest tool in the shed, he knew just what to say whenever she needed it.

Those were just memories now. They come and go like the raindrops that fell on the car's windshield. She wasn't the wide eyed little girl who used to look forward to visits from them; she was 17, too old to believe in fairy tales, let alone those romantic comedy movies her father writes music for. The youthful sparkle in her blue eyes was gone.

As their minivan parked near the old apartment where her grandparents live, she couldn't bear to think of those thoughts any more. Those thoughts were just like any other positive thought; a fantasy. Many things have happened that made those memories as fleeting and unreal as the fairy tales that she was told as a child.

Her grandfather was arthritic now, and a stroke had taken his kindly voice just when she needed it the most. Her father seemed so distant, cold; far-removed from what he had been when she was just a little girl. She was being sent away to this place as to not upset him any further.

She sat still on the passenger seat, while her mother—a stern, ebony beauty dressed in a close-fitting business suit—tried to look for something to say. Meanwhile, a pale-skinned creature curled up along the backseat, dead asleep.

She held on to her daughter's hand-and could notice the slight difference in their skin tone. Her daughter Rachel generally took after her; she had the same dark hair, and a skin which seemed like a halfway house between her mother's and the pale boy at the backseat. She had her father's eyes, her mother would often say. Her father once called her Angel, after the way she reminded him of her mother.

There wasn't anything that mother could say at the moment; what was needed had already been said the night before. She smiled at her daughter in a vain attempt at sympathy.

She turned to the backseat.

"Louis, we're here." Hope told her son. He wiped the dribble off his face and stared out. The rain showed no sign of clearing at all. She grabbed an umbrella.

These were the first words the family said since they left home earlier that day.

"It sure is raining hard." Louis said, his voice cracking at the onset of puberty. "I wonder if they'll be okay with Rachel hanging around."

"Of course they would, Lou. Your grandparents are wonderful people." Hope replied. She turned to her daughter and said. "Your grandpa and grandma would love to have you over."

"Why'd dad have to send Rachel away? That's too much."

"We are not sending your sister away. She told us herself that she wanted to stay with them for awhile."

Rachel couldn't help but give a brief smile. Her brother was many things, obnoxious being one of them from time to time. But unlike most people his age, he managed to keep a little innocence in him—an innocuous sense of naivety seen in the glint of his dark eyes. In his small mind, what was happening was senseless and cruel. His sympathy was more than enough to lighten her spirits, at least for a while.

"So, you're staying here until you're due?" Louis asked. "I don't want to miss the chance to be an uncle."

"I guess so." Rachel replied.

"That or until your father cools off." Hope answered, "Honestly I never expected him to react that way. Louie, once we get home, remind me to talk to your father, again."

The family disembarked, and approached the apartment's stoop, where they were greeted by a kindly old woman. Grandma spared no time in greeting them.

"Hope, you made it." Grandma said gleefully upon seeing her family.

Grandma gave her two grandchildren a tight hug.

Hope asked Louis to pick up his sister's baggage. Not too long ago, it was their grandfather who would—as a manner of boasting how he had aged with grace—offer to help unload.

Grandma led the two ladies to the living room.

Rachel observed the place. She hardly saw any changes at all. The living room still as it was, decorated with various pictures of times long past. Among them old ones featuring her father—a blond haired, blue-eyed man the image of her younger brother and grandparents.

Her grandparents made a rather beautiful (if not odd) couple when they were younger, as seen in their old family pictures. Grandma was an elegant woman, refined in manner and bearing befitting a member of a grand convocation of formally-dressed gentry. Grandfather was scruffy and handsome, as expected from a man who once was at the front of a band.

As a testament to this difference, a cello and a guitar delicately cared for by their respective owners stand side by side on one corner. Right next to it was a framed piece—her father's first composition, which her grandparents look on with so much pride. She couldn't understand why, but they swore that they heard this piece shortly before they married.

Interestingly there were no baby pictures of her father anywhere. His graduation pictures, his wedding, and photographs of his children were all there. But any photo of him with his parents at an age younger than 12 did not exist. For her the explanation was simple; she always assumed that her father was adopted.

Hope and Rachel sat down in a sofa next to an upright piano. Across the room was their grandfather, Louis' namesake.

"I hope it isn't too much trouble, Lyla."

"It's nothing we can't handle, dear. If anything, we should have them visit more often."

"A weekend is a visit, Lyla. She'll be staying for 6 months."

"I'm telling you, it's nothing your father-in-law or I can't handle."

Louis enters, his overcoat wet with precipitation, dragging his sister's suitcases down the hall. He wasn't exactly very big, and carrying women's luggage was the equivalent of carrying ten tons of lead.

Grandpa Louis watched, somewhat amused by the events. He has been wheelchair-bound since the stroke, and could barely get around. He held a little writing slate on his hand; he lost his ability to speak, but could write just as good—if not better—than before the stroke.

"Very funny, gramps." Said Louis, reacting at what Louis the elder had written.

Good old grandpa. He never fails to bring a smile on a face, Rachel thought. It's as if the old days have returned. Back before she became a teenager and her parents got busier and busier.

Reality's poisonous bite, however, caused a pain that was hard to remedy. It could never be like the old days, back when she was six and her grandparents weren't limp with arthritis. Back when her grandmother could still play the cello, and her grandfather could sing to it.

This wouldn't have been so bad, if it weren't for a little romance that ended in an accident.

* * *

"It's nice to hear that you decided to keep your baby, Rachel." Lyla said as she tried to cook dinner. Arthritis had taken its toll, and only medicine kept it from being too unbearable. Rachel had chosen to help around the house for as long as she can; with a baby on the way, she wasn't the type to want to be a burden.

"We never expected this to happen to you dear." Her grandmother added. "Although personally I think your father's reaction is uncalled for. Of all people Evan should know better."

"It's just so hard to be optimistic when everything's closing in on you." Rachel replied.

"Your father may not understand dear, but I do. Believe me."

"Please, grandma, are you going to tell me another feel-good yarn?" she said, in a bitter tone. "It's not like this is one of those stories you told me when I was a kid! This is real life; there are no happy endings in this story."

Grandma seemed visibly hurt, and not by the way her knuckles hurt as she chopped the leeks.

"Grandma, I'm sorry if I said anything." Rachel said apologetically, as she poured the soup base into the saucer.

"You're your father's daughter, all right." Lyla responded.

Rachel stood silent.

"I didn't talk to him after our argument, grandma. This is why I came here."

She sobbed; she couldn't speak anymore. Grandma approached her, giving her a shoulder to cry on.

From the adjacent room, Louis listened on. Knowing of the pregnancy made him partly depressed, partly angry, and partly sympathetic. This all seemed eerily familiar to him.

He had a lot to say, but couldn't say it. While he was glad he couldn't yell, he laments how he couldn't comfort his granddaughter with his voice. It wasn't so much the advice that Rachel desired (to be frank, he wasn't really good at coming up with words of wisdom at all, but they seemed to work anyway), but the tone of Grandfather's voice. That was something that could never be replicated in a touchpad and stylus.


	2. Silence

_Okay, Lyla's a granny, Louis is mute, and their granddaughter is pregnant. Where have we all heard that before? We know they have grandchildren and a little great-grandchild on the way. Now to beg the question: whatever happened to their son?_

_

* * *

_

The many wind chimes in Evan's office clang violently as the door is opened. An angry mid-forties black man enters, clad in a close-fitting suit, enters, infuriated. He stares angrily at the composer, Evan, cradled in his chair. His hands are buried in pile after pile of music sheets; all of their staves devoid of notes.

"Do the other executives ask how awkward it is to have dreadlocks in a corporate meeting?" Evan asked sarcastically as he looked.

"What is wrong with you, man?" Said the man, his dreadlocks bouncing as his head moves with rage, "The studio's expecting the score within three months, and you haven't even written a single note of it?"

with you, man?" Said the man, his dreadlocks bouncing as his head moves with rage, "The studio's expecting the score within three months, and you haven't even written a single note of it?"

"Look, this isn't as easy as it looks okay?"

"Isn't as easy as it looks? Are you kidding me, Evan! You're a f-n genius! You could've come up with something by now!"

"That's not how I roll, Artie." Evan said sheepishly, "I *hear* music, I don't actually *make* it."

"Yeah, yeah. Don'tcha think I know all about that, Mister touchy-feely-leave-the-window-open-it-helps-me-work. Now why is it that you have an open window, and still not come up with anything? You know how I got here, mister fancy-music-school; I started as a janitor here—an effing janitor! Do you know how much I sacrificed to claw my way up here? I cleaned toilets to pay for Business School! For 3 years I played as a street musician in Central Park! "

"We both did. Remember?"

"Don't remind me, Julliard. The point is I'm the executive here, and you're the composer. You don't deal with any of that business crap I have to deal with." Arthur said begrudgingly.

Evan had enough.

"Oh, yeah. *I* have it easy—try growing up in a tone-deaf orphanage with a bunch of misfit delinquents mocking you day in and day out. And you think everything's sunshine and butterflies now that I'm mister-hit-composer. Oh, look. Everything's going to be fine for me now that I'm the new James Horner or John Williams. Yeah, guess what buster? I'm in the middle of a family crisis; my wife doesn't talk to me, my father doesn't talk at all, and my daughter's with child. So if you think I'm slacking off simply because I feel confident of my own skill, you have another thing coming!"

Arthur stood silent, and sighed. He paused for a deep breath while Evan looked at him with sad, sad eyes that simply screamed 'please you don't know what I'm going through I'm not having a pleasant time'.

"Look, buddy—"

"Aw, Evan. Don't look at me like that. It's downright pathetic." Arthur said. "Okay, I understand. Things have been rough around your place…"

"How can I listen to the music? I can barely hear it now. Ever since that argument we had with my little Angel. It's like when I was mad at her, I couldn't hear it anymore."

"How did that argument go, anyway?"

"Her mom asked if it was okay for her to stay with my parents and she snapped at the chance."

"Pity."

Arthur looked around. Evan had always been a clutter bug. Everywhere were drafts pieces, with Post-it notes placed in between them. These contained notes, which according to Evan made it easier for him to try out other variations in his pieces. Among the sea of endless paperwork were neat stacks of finished scores placed in albums, a keyboard, family pictures, and (if he wasn't mistaken) the Academy award for best musical score Evan had won last year.

The family pictures struck him the most. Amidst the wind chimes and endless clutter, Evan had always valued the many images of his family as part of the creative process: his parents, uncles, sister, wife and children. Life really had taken different paths for them since their days together as street musicians in Central Park.

Once going by the moniker August Rush, Evan was later adopted by a stranger he met at the park, Louis. He returned to Julliard and eventually received a degree most people would only get in their 20s at age 14. Meanwhile Arthur returned to his family and went back to school. After (just barely) finishing high school, he got a job as a janitor in a record company.

Many years of toil and night school later, Arthur was clawing his way up the corporate ladder, when he met August again, this time going by the name E. Taylor Connelly. They started a partnership which would benefit both, but on two starkly different arenas. While Arthur finally made it to the top of his game as a high rolling executive, Evan became famous for writing musical scores for movies. He was content with remaining a composer and simply pursuing his art, the 25 cents per download he makes being enough for a comfortable living.

Arthur had the money. Evan had the fame—and a hefty cut of the profit. It was a fair deal.

"Times sure have changed, Evan." Arthur said, holding up a picture of Evan and his family—his black wife, biracial daughter, and white-looking son. "You sure have a beautiful family. Too bad about Rachel, though. I told you that you can't trust the private schools here."

"Oh sure, you can afford to send them to England. I wasn't able to afford a trip to my own home country until quite recently."

"Where, Ireland?"

"Bohemia."

"Well, we can't all have saintly children, can we Evan?"

"Oh sure rub it in."

Arthur smiled, hoping his composer would get the joke.

"Do you have any idea who the father is?"

"Not a clue."

"Just like you. Well, for a time anyway."

Evan's face soured.

The intercom buzzed; a gruff, dry voice spoke.

"Mr. Connelly, your mother is calling."

Evan shook his head. "Tell her to call later, I'm in a meeting."

Arthur stared at him condemningly.

"You know, Evan, if I were you I wouldn't take for granted something I found after 11 years of searching." The secretary said as he hung up.

"Wow, those guys from that orphanage of yours really are nuts." Arthur said. "Was he some guy who bullied you as a kid?"

"No, he was my best friend there."

"Granted, he has a point; that is not the way to treat your mother. Dog, what is wrong with you?"

"Calm down. She's only going to nag me if I talk to her now. Look, I'll call her up in the evening."

"Small wonder you can't hear anything, Evan."

"Why?"

"Because you're not listening, that's why."

A thunderclap is heard; the rainstorm continues.

* * *

Three days of almost ceaseless rain have finally cleared that night. Evan sat at his home piano, surrounded by several blank sheets meant for music.

The wind was still. The chimes did not clang. There was silence.

He wasn't used to silence. Evan had grown up with music—he swore he heard music everywhere. But not tonight.

The silence was shattered by the stomping of feet down a flight of stairs. This wasn't music.

So this is what normal people hear.

"Dad!" Exclaimed Louis eagerly.

"What is it, Louie?" Evan said in response, his head barely moving from his original position of being on top of the music sheets.

"Oh, never mind dad." The boy replied, sensing a typical scenario where his dad was drowning in work. "I see you're busy and all and…"

"Don't mind that, Louie. Need anything?"

"Well, dad, it's nothing really—"

"Spit it out, Louis."

"I auditioned for the school musical."

"That's nice to hear." Evan replied excitedly. It did involve music, after all, and wasn't normally the kind of news he hears from his family these days. "Which one? Rodgers and Hammerstein? Lloyd-Weber? Brooks?"

"Rent, dad."

"Larson, eh." Evan said. The proud parent clears the piano, and begins playing the opening tune of the musical from memory. Louis starts to sing.

_Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes_

_Five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear_

_Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes_

_How do you measure, measure a year_

_In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee…_

"Okay, Louie, you got me there. Which role are you after?"

"Roger. Or Mark's understudy. Whichever. Say dad, could you try some of the lines from the song _What you own_?"

Evan nods in agreement, and begins to play the song as Louis changes pitch while singing both characters. He looked at one of Louis' pictures from when he was younger, and smiled; he was appropriately named, after all.

One line from the song caught his attention.

…_and the songwriter cannot hear._

Louis concludes his song, and gets a congratulatory pat on the head from his father before he leaves. Just as his father was getting back to his work (if you could call staring at blank musical staves work), he comes back.

"Hey dad, you were supposed to call Grandma Lyla, right?"

"I believe so." He replied. Louis left, and Evan stood up and scrambled for the phone.

* * *

Rent _belongs to the late Jonathan Larson._


	3. Lull

_I have read a complaint that most AR fan fictions concentrate on the father-son half of the family. Methinks perhaps this is because the first (and in the narrowest sense, only) parent that August actually meets in the movie was Louis, despite neither of the two knowing anything about it. Bearing this fact in mind, and the fact that women (who I assume write most of these fictions) find Louis drop dead attractive [*green with envy*], people naturally make father-son fan fictions about Louis and August._

_Don't fret, as Lyla would have her share of the limelight in this fan fiction, partly because the story asks for it, and in part as a response to all you who wish Lyla and August have some bonding time together._

_Have pity for Louie though; in this fan fiction, he can't even talk._

* * *

Whether or not it was the lull after the squall or the eye of a storm, the brief respite after several days of rain was a welcome one. Lyla found rainy days to be a mixed blessing of sorts. Rain has a depressing effect on some people; she being one of them. It only takes a few minutes of rain to remember years of loss.

It did have an upside, though. Rain also kept the family inside; a really bad storm meant Louis would be home. Such an event would mean family bonding as the father and his children looking for things to do when the TV goes out. Looking back to those times, rain didn't seem so bad after all. Those years without her baby at once seemed like nothing but a bad dream.

Every moment they have stranded under the shelter of that apartment meant as much to her as the many happy memories other families had in a span of 20 years. And she had tried to make those times seem as pleasant as possible for her two children, and her love.

Lyla often joked that marrying Louis meant adopting another teenager, something that her husband did nothing but reaffirm. Lou made it painfully obvious that he was once the baby of the family as he and their adolescent Evan horseplay around the house, arguing about various trivial things in a vain effort to amuse themselves.

If she did finish her chores for the day, she may actually join them (if she hasn't already been dragged in). Taking care of a little girl didn't change anything either, as daddy's idea of taking care of a baby girl meant playing with her.

Rain seemed to have no ill effect on Evan whatsoever; in fact one of the ways he spends his time was to compose randomly. The music he composes during rainstorms was not really the type people would associate with rain; they were upbeat, sentimental, and lack the melancholy and ennui that came with a storm. Where normal people feel depression, he feels happiness and contentment.

The night meant a romantic candlelit dinner for the parents, while Evan played yet another love song on the upright piano. As soon as the children were asleep, a night of passion was inevitable for the proud parents.

Those were different times. Her children have grown up and moved on. Her daughter now works as a writer in Chicago. Her son lives just north of them, along with his wife and son. Her granddaughter has recently moved in. Louis has had a stroke, robbing him of his ability to speak.

The lull after the rainstorm was a reality check. Evan said he'd call back. Six hours was long enough.

Lyla went over to the phone. A reluctant Louis watched from his wheelchair at the corner, expecting a heavy argument. He quickly grabbed his slate and rolled towards his Lyla from across the room.

He grabbed her hand as she was about to get the phone. She looked at him disapprovingly, but turned and read the message on the slate.

"I just need to listen." She read. Louis would've taken matters into his own hands had he been able to talk. Patience was the only benefit the old man got from the stroke. She gave her husband back the slate, and reassured him that all will be well.

The phone rings, just as she was about to call. It was Evan.

"Mom. I'm sorry I couldn't call earlier. I was just so busy with work and Arthur's not cutting me any slack today. Can I at least speak to Rachel? How is she? How's dad?"

"You're father's therapy isn't making much progress for now. As for Rachel, I doubt that she'd want to talk for awhile."

"Figures." Evan said with an obnoxious grunt. "Yet another problem to add to my list."

"I just need to talk. Can't you spare a few moments?"

"That's just it mom. I can't. I'm having a hard time with the score today; it's almost as if I can't hear the music anymore."

Lyla paused. She looked at Louis, who, while overhearing the conversation, wrote something on his slate.

"He's his father's son, all right." It read. Louis nodded. Both he and Lyla gave up on music at one point in their lives, a tendency that happened at times of emotional distress. It appears as though this trait was hereditary to the Connellys and Novaĉeks, and in Evan's case, it was completely autonomous.

"I am having the worst possible weekend. I haven't been able to write anything, and the producer's ultimatum was in 3 months. If you ask me, mom, Rachel isn't helping much."

"You watch your tongue Evan." Lyla shouted; her husband was taken aback.

"It's about Rachel, is it mom?"

"You know very well it is."

"What did she tell you?"

"Something that I never expected to hear from YOU."

"Mother, you've got to understand. She's a teenager; she isn't supposed to be having unprotected sex let alone carrying a child. It's just not right. She wouldn't even tell me who the father is."

"I understand you're upset, dear. But what you told her—you're starting to sound more and more like my father! I spent 11 years looking for the child my father took from me, and now that same child wants to repeat the same thing."

"But mom, you were what? Twenty-one? You had your choice, mom. It was your responsibility; you had all the right to tell him off. But Rachel, she was just so young, and, we don't even know who the father is."

"Tell me, Evan. How is this any different from your father and me?"

Evan was taken aback. He remained silent, as he could hear his mother sob.

"Evan, how could you?"

"I just don't want her to get hurt."

"That doesn't change anything. The worse thing your grandfather did was done with the best of intentions. He didn't want me to throw away my life, Evan. You were standing in the way. He said you would hurt me. Of all people, I was shocked that you'd be just like him."

"Mom, I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to become the man your grandfather was, Evan."

"It doesn't have to be the way Grandpa Thomas had it. This is different."

"How is it different?"

"I'm not just thinking about *my* baby."

_

* * *

Okay, I admit, it isn't much, and scene-stealing Lou is still there. Be merciful; I don't exactly think with a female register here, and so far this is pretty much what I can come up with. I figured that the conversation would lead to something like this based on Lyla's conversation with her father in the movie. While it does require that August be out of character, it did keep Lyla in character._

_Come to think of it, the movie's premise kinda opened up the possibility of this fan fiction in the first place. Come on, not only did they not use birth control; Louis didn't even get her number!_


	4. Narrative

_Well, things aren't exactly looking up just yet for the Evan Connelly household._

* * *

Evan hung up. He left his home office and went downstairs, where his dumbfounded wife and son stare condemningly at him. Dinners have been less than cordial since Rachel left the house. The dinner went as somber and silent. Whatever noise that happened earlier—mom's appeal, Arthur's preaching, his wife's arguments, and Louis' somewhat appropriate number—has long since vanished with the storms that have hit New York.

Outside, the wind had died down.

"I see you finally decided to join us, August." Hope said.

"Okay guys, seriously. Don't make it a habit to stare; it's downright rude."

His wife Hope had been perpetually glum, evident every time their eyes would meet. She hasn't been warm to him since the pregnancy. He longs for intimacy, but knows he doesn't deserve it.

Such a wonderful woman, Hope was. Whether it be her upbringing in the tender confines of a church, or the way she grew up as the stern, angelic beauty she was now, Evan was smitten by her the moment he first laid eyes on her.

Sometimes he would joke that growing up in a boy's orphanage made him bond with the first girl he could find; considering the case of his father, it might've been a genetic predisposition. Whatever the reason, he bagged a beauty—a feat he would brag about all his life. Until just now.

The morning began with breakfast, with one less child at the nest. If they didn't argue, Hope would simplify her conversations with Evan as if they were casual acquaintances. Louis barely said anything, mirroring his grandfather's condition; the drive to school and work remained more or less the same throughout. The drudgery continued at home, where all three would arrive tired, weary and hungry.

"This was getting too normal," Evan said. "The whole day was starting to fall into a sick stereotype. And why are you wearing that dingy beige jacket, Lou? "

"It's cold."

"Evan Connelly, since when did you care about whatever Louie wears?" Remarked Hope, aghast by the really critical remark atypical of Evan.

"That tacky sweater doesn't look quite fetching on you either, pops." Louis retorted with a mischievous grin. "Geometric patterns are for infomercial dudes."

"Well, since we're finally conversing…" Evan responded.

"Since when did you care about this family turning normal?" Hope replied.

"Hey, weren't you being nice to me just about half an hour ago?" Louis added, noting the strangeness of his father's mood swing.

"Why don't we just shut up and eat. The potatoes would get cold."

"Well, *since we're finally talking*, perhaps we could go back to that old topic you seem to be ignoring." Hope retorted angrily, stabbing a small potato with such force that it split.

The message was really clear. It was about Rachel and her pregnancy. Evan had avoided even mentioning it on the pretext that he was too busy with a pressing score he needed to finish. This alibi was no longer valid; Louis had noticed earlier that the sheets have been blank for days, when ordinarily his father would've at least had something written on them. Hope had also overheard his conversations with her mother-in-law.

"What do you want to talk about?" Evan asked idiotically.

"Remember the little girl who used to live here? The one who would patiently wait for daddy to come home from work every evening? Our little girl!"

"How could I forget?"

"You seem to want to."

"I'm busy."

"The sheets are blank! You couldn't write anything, could you?" Louis added.

"Louie, stay out of this." His father responded.

"Evan!"

Louis fell silent, lowered his head, and stuffed his mouth full of food. He wasn't paying attention to table manners anymore, as it would be in bad taste for his parents to correct him. The sooner he finishes the meal, the better.

Hope stared angrily at her husband as she vigorously cut her meat.

"Sorry. But this is an adults' matter and a fourteen-year-old shouldn't really meddle with something like this. Much the same way a teenage girl shouldn't be playing around with unprotected sex."

"Her lack of contraception is her fault why?"

"If she was going to break that rule anyway, why couldn't she take the necessary precautions by herself?"

"And now what?"

"I didn't say—"

"Like you did last time, Evan?"

Evan paused and drank a glass of water.

"She's too young to have a baby. She has her whole life ahead of her…"

"That sounds so much like your grandfather, from what I've heard."

"What about Dad's grandfather?" Louis asked, unaware of the situation.

* * *

"Grandma, what's this I hear about your father?" Rachel asked.

Lyla was taken aback by her granddaughter's question. It appears as if she had listened in on the phone call.

"Did it have something to do with dad's adoption?"

"What makes you think—" Lyla tried to respond. She sat down the bed, as she had done several times before when her granddaughter was still a little girl, perhaps for another story. She touched Rachel's bump, and heard a kick. The same kick she had desired to feel only 42 years earlier. For now, the mother and baby were inseparable, and loved.

"You've been listening in, have you?"

She tucked in her granddaughter as she had so many times before. She looked at Rachel with her kind green eyes much the same way she always had before she kissed her good night. It was like Rachel was 5 again.

"Grandma…" Rachel said, reluctantly trying to stop her grandmother from smothering her.

"Would you like to hear another story, sweetie?"

"That depends."

"I think it's about time we told you this."

"Go on."

"Remember the fairy tales your grandfather and I told you when you were a little girl?"

"The one you didn't end?"

"It doesn't have an ending. And maybe this would tell you why."

At that moment, the little girl in Rachel—the one she swore no longer existed—was awakened, her attention focused on the one thing she wanted to hear. The rest of her grandparents' warm bedtime story, and what happened to its little hero.

Grandfather peeked in, and took notice. He entered, much to the delight of his granddaughter.

_Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who loved music. Her father the king was a man of music, and wanted everyone to love music as much as his daughter did. And he made it a point to teach it to her, that she may share it with the world. And learn it she did. She said that she could hear her dead mother, the Queen, in the music she plays._

"My father, Thomas—he was the son of Czechoslovak immigrants who came into the States in 1939—he had an unquenchable love for music and he made it a point to go to every classical concert he could afford to attend. He soon became a violinist, and eventually became a conductor. He met my mother, a cellist in the orchestra he conducted. They fell in love at first sight, married and had two children.

Sadly, my mother died a few years after I was born. I took to playing the cello, which was something that reminded me so much of my mother; my brother Eric eventually went to the stage. He and my father didn't quite get along well afterward. See, my father loved music, and could never appreciate any other art form besides that. To him, the old masters were perfection itself—the voice of God as should be heard by man. Anything else—Broadway in particular—was just blasphemy.

Well, daddy took it to himself to teach me, and what followed was year after year of lessons in every performing arts center willing to take me in. Eventually, I had graduated top honors in Julliard and joined the New York Philharmonic. Beside me through all that was daddy. He was my constant companion, my best friend…

_One day, while she was out in the fields, she heard a mysterious noise—if you could call it noise. It was one of the most beautiful sounds she has ever heard. This wasn't just an ordinary noise, it was music. But not the kind she normally heard. She followed the noise to the top of a high place, where she could see the whole kingdom. _

_There she met a funny man who talked in a strange manner. He too was following the weird noise, and from the way he spoke, he seemed to love music too. The strange man—who was from the land of the Emeralds—fell in love with the princess, and the princess did too, though they could never understand why._

I met your grandfather on top of a club overlooking the Arch at Greenwich Village. I was following the weird but enchanting sound of a harmonica, which I later learned was being played by a panhandler. I didn't exactly know what Louis was doing there.

That panhandler couldn't play to save his life; I was making fun of him. You arrived just around the time he got it right—what else is deserving of the most beautiful woman in the world, there is?

I didn't know what about your grandfather that won me over; was it his funny Irish accent, or was it his blue eyes in the moonlight. Of course, at that moment, we… I…

Short of saying, we had sex. I was quite the charmer back then :)

It was quite a wonderful experience, really. I can't quite find the words to describe it. The way he stroked my hair that night, or the ecstatic feeling we had when we first kissed.

Lyla dear, not to vivid please. If I could speak, I'd be *fecking choking.

_The strange man was then caught by a travelling band of minstrels. Their leader called him up; it turns out they were his brothers. The princess too was called back to meet her father. The strange man promised to meet his princess again._

I was 19. I was rudely awakened with cold water by my obnoxious older brothers. How was I supposed to have thought of giving your nan my number at the time?

_When her father learned of her meeting with a strange man who listened to noise, he forbade her from seeing him again._

_But the princess and the stranger were going to have a baby. _

Maybe we shouldn't've told her that part of the story after all, love

Anyway, my father kept me from meeting Louis. And no matter how we tried, we couldn't meet each other. Moreover I was pregnant—"

"You mean?"

"Yes, Rachel. Now let me finish."

_Heartbroken without her lover, the princess ran away, and was badly hurt. She was healed, but her father told her that her baby didn't live. Having lost her baby as well, she wore never to play music again._

My father didn't believe I could see Louis again. After one particularly painful argument, I sought to run away from my father. Who was my father to dictate what I did with my life, after all? I ended up in an automobile accident. I survived, but my father told me that my baby had died. The last thing I remembered hearing before I went comatose was hearing that my baby was dying. For the longest time I thought my father told me the truth.

I blamed my father for all of this. I wouldn't have lost my baby if he didn't interfere with my life. Well, among other things, I couldn't bear to play music again. Not after losing something more dear to me than anything else—my last reminder that the Irish musician boy I met at the rooftop existed.

You didn't have to say that :)

I often wonder if it was an act of revenge for me to stop playing music. I was taking from my father the one thing that brought him joy: my music. In a way, I wanted to get away from him and his smothering, overwhelming control over my life, the best way I knew how. I didn't forgive my father, and didn't speak to him for 11 years. I continued to care for him, out of duty what I had indebted for so long. I understood how my brother felt when he left home. My father was now as alien to me as he was to Eric not so long ago. I couldn't let him get the satisfaction of still running my life when he had taken away the one thing that could have made me happy.

_Eventually, the king told his daughter the truth; he had banished the little baby boy far away, where he believed he would never bother them again. The princess was shocked at the news, and began to make the journey to look for her son. Along the way, she meets the good knight, who at first did not believe that she deserve to even have her child, as he though she had left him._

_The good knight eventually relented. And soon, he began to search far and wide for the boy. She once again found a reason to play music—a wish for a time when she could be reunited with her little one at last._

It would be eleven years before my father would tell me the truth about your father. He was terminally ill, and for the most part I though he would've died. Of course, it took a little while longer before I finally got to forgive him."

A familiar story played on. A little orphan boy ran away from an orphanage and went into the woods, where all he needed to do was to summon the good knight, who promised to help him if he ever needed help. Then the boy was taken in by a kindly Wizard. Soon, raiders arrived, and he ran away. An angel led him to a church, whose priest sent him to an academy.

The Wizard, who had become evil, captures him once more, tricking him into following his every dark command. Along the way, the orphan boy meets a friendly stranger, who he plays music with. He later finds the song he needed to play to bring his lost parents back together. And come they did.

But nothing follows after that. Grandma never told her what became of the boy and his parents, or how the stranger fitted in the story.

Rachel often thought this cheesy story would be best left for a tacky feel-good movie, much like the kind E. Taylor Connelly would write music for; its lack of a formal ending or even any emotional closure makes it a very bad story indeed. They were for children after all, and children wanted closure.

Her only attachments to this story were pure sentiment. They were nothing more than figments of her grandparents' imaginations, made to entertain a cherished loved one. Their only bearing in her life was that it reminded her of a happier time with grandma and grandpa.

That is, until her grandmother had concluded the story behind it.

Indeed, her father knew it very well. There was a reason why the story didn't have an ending. It was theirs.

* * *

"So, you're not adopted?" Louis responded inquisitively.

"What made you think that?" His father replied defensively.

"You have no baby pictures and you have adoption papers."

"Touché." Hope responded.

No doubt about it, the Connelly family followed a rather rigid genetic template. Evan Taylor Connelly heavily took after his father, and Louis looked sufficiently like his grandfather to merit inheriting the same name. Intelligence was never really the Connelly strong point. Hope's children by mercy of God inherited her quick wit; both siblings have long since mastered the art of inference while their father still tries to grasp it. They weren't exactly the ones to quickly pick up the obvious though; it never occurred to Louis or Rachel that he was named after their grandfather for the reason that they were biologically similar.

"Why didn't you just ask me?"

"We didn't want to hurt your feelings. And we'd rather not ask mom either. Also, that doesn't explain the adoption papers."

"Well, my parents needed to formally have custody over me. While the legal process it took to help me live with my real parents took longer than expected, my dad just opted to shortcut the process and legally adopt me; when it was found out that I was his biological son, the adoption was final and I was his son no matter what the result was. Of course he married your grandma, and here we are."

Louis tilted his head innocently, trying to comprehend what has been fed to his simple mind, programmed as it was in the adolescent fashion of food, girls, and food.

"What I'm actually surprised is how you could get yourself so mad at Rachel when great-grandpa Tommy reacted exactly the same way."

"Look, I'm not my grandfather, okay. I was shocked—if not a bit heartbroken—that my little girl would go as far as get herself pregnant. And I was wrong to overreact. C'mon darling, you're in the same position as I am. You could understand."

"Frankly, Evan, after what happened to you, you're not really in the position to consider that other option either."

"Sending that baby out for adoption is no better than that. If I give her baby away I'd repeat the same thing my grandfather did."

"Think of it this way; it's for the right reasons. You don't have to commit the same mistake he did. Evan, while I can't say anything because I never really knew your grandfather Thomas, I just want you to know, you have the option of being a better man than he ever was. You'll only ruin both their lives if you keep them together."

There was silence. Evan gasped for breath.

"We have at our hands two lives, August. You love your daughter and you know what is best for her, as do I. Life is no joke, dear. We can pick out who the baby gets sent to. Our grandchild need not grow up unloved."

"But what if she wants the baby?"

Something about what she said stirred up Evan. He too had been conceived at wedlock; now at the same position, he felt strongly against sending his grandchild away. The suggestion of terminating the pregnancy, hypocritical as it is, was right out.

"No matter what you decide upon, Evan, your children and I would still love you. I've never known you to be a selfish man; your wants and desires have always been noble. And that's what I love about you… my sentimental savant."

"Thanks." Evan said, giving his wife a brief romantic glance before giving her a tender kiss. "My guardian angel."

* * *

"Do you really think my eyes sparkle?" Louis wrote inquisitively, tongue in cheek. Rachel had fallen asleep, and for the first time in 3 days, the moon had shown itself in the night sky. Droplets were everywhere, shining in the moonlight like a million tiny pearls.

The couple lay in their bed—theirs for 30 years. They have watched their children grow up and have families of their own. Memories of exactly how their family began ran in their heads. The beginning of that story was just too beautiful to forget.

"Yes, they do, Louis." Lyla said. "They still do."

"It's no surprise then; I'm in your radiant presence."

Lyla smiled. "Do you still think of me as that same girl you met on the rooftop?"

"Of course not. If anything, you were much better. You had my heart at first glance, you did."

"Lou, you charmer." She said, chuckling. "You're a good man and a better father—everything I believed you would have been, and more."

Louis reached for her hand, much the same way he had done 30 years before.

"You're a treasure, you are. Worth more than anything in this world, no doubt. I never thought I'd find you again."

And here they were. It was a pity, they thought, that things might have been different for their granddaughter. And there she was, repeating the same mistake that tore them apart years before.

"Do you think we could name our great-grandchild after you?"

Grandma was blushing; he was more than excited, it appears, to have another child come in their lives. They weren't exactly that old a couple, the Connellys. But they did expect the pitter-patter of little feet to come differently; they had always assumed their children would bear them another grandchild.

"We already have Louie, dear. Don't you think it'd be redundant by now?"

"Just thought that it'd be an honor to be named after the most wonderful woman I know. If there were an award for best Nan in the world, you'd bag it."

Lyla lightly chuckled, possibly in the weird yet perceivably cute face Louis makes while snickering.

She gave her husband a tight embrace. The night went on.

_

* * *

Poor August; his daughter goes about making poorly made choices and he gets all the blame for overreacting. As for the family history: I based Thomas' life from the last name Novaĉek, which to me sounded as though it was Czechoslovak in origin. Coincidentally, as with everything else in the original movie, a Czech-American Lyla would allow me to use the musical Rent as a plot reference as Bohemians, before being associated with the subculture, were originally the term used to describe the Czech people. The rest of the life mirrored the story._

_And just so it doesn't darken Lyla's character, the idea of Lyla giving up music to irk her father may not be her actual intention, depending on how you see it. It is mentioned here as a fleeting thought, and nothing more._

_Also, the word Feck is not a typo. It's an Irish word meaning "to steal", "to leave hastily", or "to throw", used as a __**mild **__expletive that from its meaning has nothing to do with f**k. Louis is Irish, and it's possible that he told his new family what it meant, and/or not to say it in public anyway because people won't get it._


	5. Chat

_Well, in this story, August and Hope got hitched, Lyla and Louis ended up together and lived happily ever after until at such point August lost his naïve innocence and became a big meanie to his daughter Rachel, leaving him with a big wedge between himself, his wife and both his kids. But he isn't a meanie; he's just stressed and heartbroken._

_Like in many other fan fictions, August gets a sister. I have an entire fan fic in store for her, yet to make her relevant in this fan fiction, here's a little teaser. _

_This takes the form of a chat transcript._

_

* * *

CeeEmCee (Caitlin May Connelly) is Online _"Still working on new book"

_ETaylorConnellyMusic (Evan Connelly) is Online _"Feck"

**CeeEmCee: **Hey, big brother.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **Hello. Whatcha doin sis?

**CeeEmCee: **Please don't do spell-as-you-pronounce on me, August. I'm not exactly used to verbalizations after all.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic:** Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to.

**CeeEmCee: **It's okay.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **Olryty

**CeeEmCee: **:-(

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **Ha, ha! Lighten up sis. I'm just playing with you.

**CeeEmCee: **To a person who used to be deaf, that isn't very nice. I still can't quite catch on with contractions, let alone chat-speak and text-speak. So I'd appreciate if you stick to writing in full sentences as you always have before.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **Sorry; it's a force of habit. I'll try not to.

**CeeEmCee: **So, why are you using Dad's word?

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **Oh, my status message. Feck isn't dirty, you know.

**CeeEmCee: **I do. Not a lot of non-Irish people know that, though. Besides, that's the very first thing I heard daddy ever say. To an impressionable preteen who has only recently started to hear, an expletive isn't exactly a good way to start learning about sound.

**ETaylorConnelly: **:-)) That's what happens if your father's Louis Connelly. Though you have to cut the old man some slack. Dad did tell us not to say it in Public.

**CeeEmCee: **To me, Feck would always be Daddy's word. How's the Aul Man, by the way?

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **He's recovering well from the stroke. He isn't doing well with therapy, though. He can move by himself somewhat but he still can't speak.

**CeeEmCee: **I heard Rachel's looking after him. Isn't she supposed to be in school?

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **A girl in her condition shouldn't be going to school.

**CeeEmCee: **And a pregnant teenager shouldn't be caring for arthritic seniors. I'm just glad that mommy and daddy can still handle her.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **Mom was more than willing to have her over.

**CeeEmCee: **So she told me.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **I'm going to be the bad guy again, am I?

**CeeEmCee: **No, not really. I can understand your feelings. Had the same thing happened to me, daddy would've been as upset as you. Where do you think you get it? Not from mom, that's for sure.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **Prolly from Uncle Nick.

**CeeEmCee: **:-))

**ETaylorConnellyMusic:** Okay, still waiting for the condemnation.

**CeeEmCee: **Look on the bright side, Evan, you're going to be a grandfather in your 40s, just like mom and dad.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **You won't think it's funny if you have this problem and it gives you writer's block.

**CeeEmCee: **Well, what is your problem?

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **Ever since my little girl broke my heart by messing up her life, I can't write music.

**CeeEmCee: **So, you're suddenly like the rest of us tone-deaf normals. How does it feel to be on the same page as everyone else?

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **It kind of kills enthusiasm, and it has your boss breathing down your neck. It's also quite humiliating. To be like everyone else.

**CeeEmCee: **You don't have to lose your sense of self respect. But I get you. It kind of hurts your pride to finally be like a normal person. Superior talent gave you a bit of haughty, cocky attitude to be honest. But to be perfectly fair, that didn't exactly make you any of a nice guy.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **…

**CeeEmCee: **I won't be the deaf girl who teaches a musician how to hear again. For one thing, I'm not deaf anymore. Thanks to you, brother.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **You're welcome. Maybe it really is about time that someone who used to be deaf tell me how to hear again.

**CeeEmCee: **I could tell you about the story of a disobedient young man who nearly broke his parent's hearts by risking his sister's life.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **He was trying to fulfill a promise to a small girl that she would share in the wonderful world that her brother knew about.

**CeeEmCee: **What do you plan to do with your grandchild, pappy?

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **Stick to fairy tales, May. Comedy's not your strong suit.

**CeeEmCee: **Well, getting rid of it isn't an option considering what we are: an illegitimate bastard and an invalid.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic:** She's not old enough to take care of a child.

**CeeEmCee: **And taking the baby away might be a bit painful for her. Remember mom?

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **Grandpa Tommy acted selfishly and without care for mom's feelings or my welfare. My concern what's good for them both.

**CeeEmCee: **Well, you can always ask her what she feels about it first. Explain to her that what you have in mind is for the best.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **Do you think I'll hear the music then?

**CeeEmCee: **Tragedy does have a way of numbing the musical side of the gene pool, but it makes great story material.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **You print media sleazebag. You're completely immune to this!

**CeeEmCee: **Different talent, different problem. And that coming from a guy who makes a ton of money from 25 cent royalties alone.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **:-))

**CeeEmCee: **I kid, big brother. Whatever you decide, it's not going to be your decision alone; for one thing, Rachel may be your baby but her baby is hers. You have to decide what is best with her otherwise you risk hurting her feelings in the process. Now if she weren't as stubborn as you or dad.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **It does run in the family. Why is it that you have mom's level headedness?

**CeeEmCee: **Who's being funny now, Rushie? I got your back, bro.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **I always could count on you to listen.

**CeeEmCee: **It helps if you don't hear. Glad I could help.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **You do have dad's knack for giving advice.

**CeeEmCee: **Papa doesn't preach anymore. But somehow I have a feeling it'd be better off if he did. It'll be a battle of the clueless impulsive pig heads.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **Well, thanks. I think.

**CeeEmCee: **You're always welcome to ask me, bro. I'm a writer. I come up with messages like this for a living. And Evan, one more thing.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **What?

**CeeEmCee: **I may never have met Grandpa Thomas, but I think that no matter how Mom or you may have felt about what he did, he probably did mean well, and we can forgive him for that. Just bear this in mind: no matter how noble or good our intentions may be, the end doesn't always justify the means.

**ETaylorConnellyMusic: **So, do you think I'll be able to do the right thing?

**CeeEmCee: **We're going to have to wait and see.

_Caitlin May Connelly is Offline_

_

* * *

At least his sister didn't pour on the "Evan you bad dad" mantra everybody seems to be fond of doing recently._

_Well, after a hiatus due to my thesis and graduation, I finally got around to doing this fan fiction. I'd do that other one but August Rush is the shiny new toy and it makes for great fan fiction material—plotholes and heartwarming storyline added. This fic is part of a long story I intend to write about August/Evan and his family, hopefully starting from stories of his parents' childhoods (way before the earliest event in the movie took place) and then on to after the concert and August's life afterwards._

_Hope I don't flood the fan fiction section; August Rush doesn't exactly have a big collection of fics, at least as compared to Anime or some Books. _

_I know, Louis never said *feck* in the entire movie._


	6. Outside

"_It sounds like life" is how one person described the musical style of genius Evan Taylor Connelly his scores were in particular the hallmarks of musical creativity. A musical prodigy the likes of which few have ever seen, the versatile Connelly is a New York native with a life story as complex as the scores he makes. If you didn't already know, Evan has recently won his first Oscar as the composer for the critically acclaimed movie, _Raucous Hill. _ He is currently signed under Hawking records, and managed by music mogul Arthur Rodgers Hawking._

_Connelly claims his musical style was influenced by his "personal philosophy"; he says he can hear music from *everywhere* and simply jots down and brings in the music that already existed. To prove a point, he showed us his office windows. They're almost always open. _

_Unsurprisingly, this came from a man who from an early age went to Julliard—bypassing the preparatory institution and gaining a degree –and a chance for his piece to play at the Philharmonic. _

_While often said to be an "experimental musician", Connelly has no particular "specialty" genre; he has dabbled with such radically different forms as techno, rock, and hip hop with relative amounts of success. His style is as varied as the world itself. The instruments he used were unconventional. He can play just about any conceivable instrument—heck, he can even play the guitar with his foot. His close friend and manager Arthur once remarked jokingly about this in a documentary video, that E. Taylor Connelly could make music out of paperclips; the documentary's soundtrack later included _Paper Clip Rhapsody in C Major_ from Connelly's _Office Space_ album. _

_Funnily enough, the only instrument he couldn't successfully play was the vocal chords; he doesn't sing. This, coming from a man who made turntables sound like Beethoven, is hilarious; he's also quite the lighthearted funny man, and he would often poke fun at his own lack of vocal skills. _

"_I'm fond of reading, too" he adds. He says that he is fond of Dickensian stories like Oliver Twist and is a patron of both reading and musical theatre._

_Once known as "August Rush" (and, still fondly called that by loved ones) particularly since his days in Julliard, he began his career as a stray child who ran away from a children's home in upstate NY. He eventually became a panhandling musician; while seeking refuge at a church, the local minister referred him to Julliard where he breezed past their preparatory within, prompting him to enter the actual college. _

_He is the adoptive son of Louis and Lyla Connelly, who eventually were proven to be his biological parents. Father Louis is a naturalized Irish-American from Galway, who moved to San Francisco in 1994. For a time he was the vocalist for a rock band composed of his brothers. His mother, Lyla Novacek Connelly, also from Julliard, performed for the New York Philharmonic. They have one other child, children's fiction writer Caitlin May Connelly. _

_Apart from the Academy Award for Best Musical Score, Evan has received many other academic honorifics, as well as five Grammys. He is currently continuing his composition work, as well as serving as a professor in Julliard. He has been called up as a guest conductor for the New York Philharmonic on several occasions. He currently lives in New York City, NY, with his wife, Hope, and two children. _

* * *

An old man in a cowboy hat set down his copy of People Magazine with a thud.

"Sellouts. That's what they are. Big. Fat. Ungrateful. Sellouts." He yelled, coughing. He looked angrily at the magazine, staring right at the face of composer E. Taylor Connelly and music producer Arthur Hawking. "The both of you were nothing without me. Ingrates! You can't learn music from the books, and it certainly shouldn't be *sold*! What a load of—"

"Sir, please." Said a nurse, "Calm down. You'll give yourself a heart attack again."

The old man noticed the earphones in his caregiver's ear. She was listening in to a familiar sound, a sound he himself could hear, but just barely. It was a familiar style; it flooded the sound system of the entire senior's home.

"What are you listening to?"

"It's the new song from that Raucous Hill movie soundtrack. The film sucked, but I love the music." The nurse said, sharing her earphones with the strawberry headed old geezer. Upon hearing it in full blast, he knew without a doubt who it was."

"Connelly."

"He is a genius, sir. We've been listening to his songs for ages. It never gets old."

"Right on. Say, did you know that I taught him everything he knew?"

The nurse stared him down, and began to cart the old man towards the station for his medicine.

"I don't need medicine." He said, trying to avoid a nasty drug.

"But sir, you're talking crazy again."

"I… uh… just need fresh air."

"It's always fresh air with you, Mr. Wallace." The nurse said as she carted him outside, "well, if it's what makes you feel better..."

* * *

Peter entered the recording room with a loud thud.

Evan jerked, his face wincing in pain as the audio equipment sent out a loud, painful screech down his ear canal.

He turned and looked menacingly at his secretary—a pot-bellied man about his age, with a pessimistic facial expression that never seemed to go away. He'd known this face all his life. Always the one who stood by him, defended him, and tolerated—nay, humored—his fantasies of ever finding his lost parents who were outlandishly said to speak to him in the wind. That was over thirty years ago, back when he was an unassuming oddball everyone called a freak.

Who's the freak now? Pissed and unable to work, with a sharp pain in the auditory canal that only served to fan the fires caused by an impending deadline and creative block. The freak was at the top; the accessory at the bottom.

Evan removed his earphones, and approached the secretary. Peter stood his ground, defiant.

"Do you have any clue to how delicate this equipment is? And do you have any idea of who is working with these instruments?

"Yes sir."

"I've had an Oscar and more Grammys than the total number of significant figures in your salary over the course of a lifetime. I am one of the most respected composers in the music world. Rock Stars would prostrate themselves to me for them to do a cover of any one of *my* pieces. I can make music come out of paperclips! And just what makes you think that just about any tone-deaf pencil pusher can just barge right in on E. Taylor Connelly without authorization, you better have a damn good reason to!"

"I used to be the friend of a guy who works here. His name is Evan. Do you know him? I don't think so. My friend's a class-A weirdo, but he isn't a jerk. Jeez, after thirty years, five Grammys and an Oscar and already you're cocky beyond belief. "

"When you find Mr. Mannix, give him my card."

"Yes sir!" He responded in a jest. Some things just don't change.

"You really think I'm that cocky?"

"Ego-maniacal would be a more appropriate term. Who wouldn't be? You've got looks, fame, a gorgeous wife and two beautiful kids, talent–yeah; everyone just itches to be E. Taylor Connelly."

"I try not to forget that I came from an orphanage." Evan said with a grin.

"Good luck." He teased. There was no hiding that Evan wasn't a big bad boss, though he wasn't above pretending to be one for laughs.

"I'm serious about the equipment. And that buzz in my ear could make me deaf if that were to happen more often. So, please, don't do that again."

"Yes, my beloved leader!" Peter said in a faux German accent, making a mocking hand salute.

"Ha, ha."

Beat.

"Anyway, why are you here?"

"Your mother is asking your consent to let your daughter and her go out shopping. Apparently the medical papers won't let her travel outside the house without your prior permission. "

"Why would she send such a message at this time of day?

"You never call."

"Eh, it's time for my coffee break anyway."

"No it's not."

"Who's the chief composer who is more awesome than you?"

"She's here."

"Just be a good boy and talk to mommy." Pete retorted, "and there's an arcane device called a 'phone', use it once in a while and Mrs. Connelly might well stay at home more often."

Evan rushed to the office's main lobby. Seated there was his mother, Lyla Novaĉek-Connelly, still carrying some of the elegance she had over thirty years ago. No surprise to how she got passed security; in this office, she was held in the highest regard due to her acclaim as a distinguished member of the Philharmonic.

"Hi mom." Evan said in a bashful but somewhat deadpan tone whose emotion cannot be discerned clearly. He was either upset, or embarrassed. Perhaps both.

"Don't you think your daughter should be in school?"

"In her condition it's a miracle that she's even allowed to keep that baby."

"I wasn't allowed to keep you. And I wanted you. So much."

Evan sat down just across his mom.

"She certainly shouldn't be allowed to tire herself out. Medically speaking hers is possibly a lot more dangerous if we subject her to any unnecessary stress ." Evan paused. "Yet ultimately the decision is hers. As far as we're concerned a little one is coming. For her to have hidden it from me for that long she didn't have any other intention apart from making me a grandpa. Anyway, I've made arrangements for the homeschooling months ago. I'd like to ask how she's doing with her tutor?"

"Home schooling isn't exactly good for a teenager for very long. She misses her friends, the homework is piling up and she can barely understand any of it. And her English tutor's monotone is driving your father crazy."

"Well, until this blows over she can't go; end of discussion. Even if she could be healthy enough to travel, the abject humiliation she'll be getting—"

"Yours or hers?"

"Rachel's, of course. I'm a behind-the-scenes person, not a Hollywood superstar. And what is it that you want?"

"Well, I am waiting for the complementary cup of coffee…"

"What else?"

"My granddaughter to have a social life again. Phone access to anyone other than family, regular school if she could manage it until at least a month before she's due. I promise you if she can't take it, she'll be back to home-schooling immediately. Being grounded for the whole term of a pregnancy seems a bit too harsh."

"I don't know."

"Please."

Peter arrived with the coffee cup. Unlike most complementary cups, it used a ceramic cup, and had the added trouble of having whipped cream and candy sprinkles on top of it.

"…with sprinkles on top?" Lyla made a grin. Granny was good at this game.

Evan turned to Peter with the typical angry boss stare.

"I know, I got those sprinkles from your stash. I know, other bosses would have me fired. But put it this way, she's your mom. It's for her; it isn't stealing—it's giving to her what is due from her loving son."

"Never mind," He said. To his mother he replied "I'll have the papers prepared. She's free to go back to school by next week, assuming nothing happens to her over the weekend. And yes, she can go outside, with your permission."

Lyla smiled.

"If anything were to happen, she stays indoors until the doctor says so."

* * *

_"Raucous Hill"? Well, just try to come up with an inspirational feel-goody type award bait movie title and not make it sound meaningless. _

_I'd ask if there are any takers on who the angry old man is, but it's already so obvious it hurts. Any valid guesses on Arthur's surname, perhaps?  
_


End file.
